Dirty Little Secrets
by Mireille DeMaupassant
Summary: The hallowed halls of Hogwarts Castle are riddled with dirty little secrets. What happens when they're revealed, one by one? Rated M for graphic sexual content.
1. Chapter 1 - Ron

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters contained within this wonderful book series.

Ron

_I knock back another shot and slam the empty glass onto the bar as the hard liquor burns hot and sour at the back of my throat. It's a bloody awful sensation, but the alcohol goes to work fast, clearing out the anxiety that had been creeping back into my head._

_I thought being at the party would make this easier. In the lonely hours before, I deluded myself into believing that the loud music, the flashing lights, and the carefree atmosphere would be exactly what I needed to stay relaxed. I told myself he would probably be feeling more like himself tonight, and I wouldn't have to worry about how easily he lied to me this afternoon. Everything would be just like it was before._

_The second I walked into the Room of Requirement, though—the second I saw the crowd of celebrating Gryffindors, heard the music rumbling through the stone walls, and felt the pace of my heartbeat double—all of the false hope evaporated. Somehow I managed to wade through the sea of gyrating bodies, even greeting teammates_ _and classmates and friends, all the while, choking on the feeling that they were all just witnesses to my impending humiliation._

_Now, almost an hour later, I'm gripping the bar for support, thinking about how badly I need another drink. The house elf behind the bar seems to sense this and magics another "Fortem Fortibus" my way. This time, I don't wait for it to touch down. I snatch it out of the air and toss the toxic-looking yellow liquid into my mouth, adding the glass to the line of empties forming in front of me. This one doesn't have as much bite as the last one. I guess strengthening part of the potion is finally starting to kick in._

_I take a deep, shaky breath as the current song dies and Weird Sisters' screeching fills the room._

_"Harry," I recite, fighting the weight of my tongue. "I know things haven't been easy since everything that happened at the Ministry, but I want you to know that I'm still here for you and I'll always be because I love you."_

_I can't actually hear the words coming out of my mouth, but practicing them, focusing on them __keeps me from noticing little things like how long I've been sitting here, and from asking myself if I really think he's going to even show up._

_Suddenly, applause breaks out from somewhere by the door and my heart skips a beat. Time's up._

_The music stops abruptly and everyone turns to look. I see Seamus Finnigan pushing his way to the circular stone platform in the center of the room, a bottle in his hand and his wand pointed at his throat._

_"Ladies and gents gather round," his magically magnified voice booms as he steps up, a little unsteady on his feet. "Our guest of honor has arrived!"_

_He sweeps an arm toward the door and, as if on cue, the crowd parts along the line to reveal Harry standing among a group of latecomers that I don't recognize, looking happier than I've seen him in months._

_Has he been here the whole time? Why didn't he come find me?_

_Don't think about it. Not now._

_"Harry Potter, you magnificent bastard!" Seamus says. He's shouting even with the Sonorous charm, which means the ale he's holding is hardly his first._

_A rumble of laughter travels across the room. Harry smiles and I feel myself relax for the first time today. It's him, the real him—not the stranger who's been taking him over since he came back for sixth year with no explanation for where he'd been all summer._

_"You've led Gryffindor House to some spectacular victories," Seamus goes on, "but this season, you've truly outdone yourself! Three matches! Three victories! A spot in the Quidditch Cup Final! And not—a—single—point—scored—against us!"_

_The cheers and applause at Seamus's words are deafening. The stone walls rumble with the frenzy, still fresh from today's win and it's like we're all back on the pitch, watching Harry emerge from a snowy pit holding the snitch high over his head. Even I have to pull myself out of my anxiety for a moment to appreciate how impressive this season's been._

_Seamus raises his hand for silence after a minute._

_"My fellow Gryffindors," he calls, "let's all raise a glass to the man who couldn't stop at saving us from certain doom. He's the best captain and seeker Hogwarts has ever had, and he's well on his way to making our final Quidditch season the most impressive that Hogwarts has ever seen." He raises his bottle in Harry's direction. The rest of the partygoers follow suit, lifting their drinks in honor of their hero._

_"To Harry," Seamus says._

_"To Harry," the crowd murmurs in return. And they all drink._

_My eyes flick to Harry but he's not Harry anymore. He's tense and uncomfortable. His smile is forced and his nod to Seamus is stiff. As the music starts back up, someone from his group puts a hand on his shoulder to congratulate him. He shakes it off and beelines to the bar._

_I send him a smile but he either doesn't see me or doesn't want to acknowledge me._

_"Hey," I shout to him over The Hobgoblins' newest single._

_"Hey," he shouts back, flagging down the bartender instead of looking at me. The house elf takes one look at Harry and twirls a long, knobby finger in his direction. A short glass, half filled with clear purple liquid appears on the bar in front of him. Harry drains it in one swig and signals for another._

_"This is a great party!" I say._

_He doesn't reply._

_"Seamus's best, so far, I think." I continue, fighting to keep the desperation out of my voice. He still doesn't answer. I watch him down the second drink and order a third, and I can't keep my concern to myself anymore. "Maybe you should slow down, mate!"_

_He ignores me and knocks the drink back. This time, it hits him hard. The glass falls out of his hand and he leans against the bar, eyes shut tight, hands balled into fists as the effect of the magical liquor runs its course._

_Do it now, my gut tells me. Tell him now!_

_My mouth hangs open, the words I've practiced so many times circling just beyond reach. When he finally turns around he doesn't even notice. His eyes are trained on the crowd, scanning their faces with the same look he gets when he's in the air, hunting for the snitch. I don't have to guess who he's looking for._

_We find him at the same time, skulking in a corner on the opposite side of the room, his silver-blond hair catching one of the dancing lights every so often. Harry starts forward into the crowd. I follow and try to stop him, grabbing at his shirt, his arm, his shoulder._

_"Harry wait—"_

_"I've gotta go."_

_"I need to tell you—"_

_"We'll talk later."_

_"I love you!" He stops abruptly and I nearly run into him. He wheels around. With the full force of his green eyed stare suddenly on me, my breath catches in my throat. I don't know what to say so I repeat myself. "Harry, I—"_

_"Don't!" he cuts me off, and he throws my hand off of his arm._

_A mix of emotions passes over his face, but more than anything, he looks...upset. He steps toward me, mouth open as if he's going to say something, but he stops short. It happens second time. He takes a step, a breath, opens his mouth and I hope to god he says something—anything—but I get nothing. Then, he's gone._

_I stand, frozen in the spot where he's left me with his nothing. I crane my neck over the heads of the crowd, watching him weave in and out of the dancers until he emerges on the other side, at Malfoy's back. He taps Malfoy on the shoulder and starts to speak. Without hesitation, Malfoy is on him, pulling him in, kissing him, groping wildly at him and Harry, over his initial shock, is responding in kind. Malfoy pushes him against the wall. His hands are everywhere—in Harry's hair, on his face, on his chest, down the front of his jeans..._

_This should hurt, shouldn't it? I should feel sick or betrayed, at least. Anything but this nothingness, this gaping hole where my breaking heart should be. Or maybe this is just what heartbreak feels like._

_A door appears on the wall behind them. It swings backward and they disappear into the darkness beyond. As the door closes and fades away, I realize it isn't heartbreak I'm feeling. It's confirmation. All this time, I've been fighting to hold on to what little of Harry I could and now I know that, all this time, I've had exactly what I have now: nothing._

AN: Not my strongest first chapter, but I've been out of the game for almost a decade so bear with me. Hopefully, practice makes perfect, or better, at least. Next chap will be up tomorrow. Don't forget to review!


	2. Chapter 2 - Severus

Severus

The faint odor of burnt rubber fills my nostrils as I stride up the aisle of my dungeon classroom. Someone has added the powdered bicorn horn to their Pepper-Up Potion before allowing it to simmer, rendering it completely useless and earning themselves a zero for the day. I start to wonder to whom I will be imparting the failing marks when the smell grows stronger. My heart leaps with malicious glee as I find myself standing before Harry Potter's work station. A waterfall of green smoke is issuing from his potion, cascading over the rim of his cauldron, as he flips frantically through his textbook, no doubt searching for a way to rectify his blunder.

"Something wrong with your potion, Potter?" I ask him.

He answers me without looking up from his book. "No, sir," he says through clenched teeth. "My potion is fine."

I smile and lean so closely to him that the bristly hairs sticking out of the crown of his head nearly brush the tip of my nose. "Ah, you see, Potter," I whisper to him. "That is where you are very much mistaken."

Without another word I straighten. A quick glance at the clock on the back wall tells me there are ten minutes left in the lesson. _Perfect_, I think to myself.

"You should now be adding the finishing touches to your potions," I say to the rest of the students, breaking a solid hour of silent concocting, "and if you're not, ten more minutes won't be enough to save you. When you have finished, bring a sample of your work to my desk for grading. If any of your potions look like Potter's,"—I pause to allow the other students to eye Potter's work—"then you need not turn in a sample at all because it is so poorly crafted that you would be better off receiving a zero than the marks that such shoddy workmanship would earn."

I hear a few stifled sniggers come from the cluster of Slytherin students on the right side of the room, but my eyes are on Potter, who is glaring at me with murder in his eyes.

"In fact," I continue, fueled by his fury, "You may all leave after bringing me your samples, for Mr. Potter will be making up for his utter ineptitude by spending his dinner hour cleaning up each and every one of your work stations. Without magic."

The Slytherin students make no attempt to hide their amusement this time, openly applauding and jeering in the direction of Potter's work area. Their mirth pleases me, but it is quickly eclipsed by the look of contempt that Potter is sending my way. His green eyes bore into mine and I feel a shock of arousal pulse through my body. It leaves me thankful for the layers of billowing robes that conceal my now rock hard member.

I cock a taunting eyebrow at him in response before returning to my desk. As soon as I sit down, surreptitiously adjusting my undergarments to accommodate the recent protuberance, the students begin to bring their samples to me. None is brave enough to endure my criticisms, however, and the room empties before I am finished grading the first.

I take each flask in turn, peering into it in search of telling changes in hue, sniffing it for traces of mistaken ingredients. Draco's is nearly perfect; his heavy hand with the salamander scales will lose him a mere half-point. Gregory Goyle's and Vincent Crabbe's are far too viscous, suggesting they boiled their potions rather than simmered them, and Weasley's, to my absolute amusement, is utterly unrecognizable, earning him bottom marks.

As I scribble a zero next to his name on my grading parchment, I hear Potter laboring about the dungeon. I watch him take hold of one of the large pewter cauldrons and heave it to the far side of the classroom, hear him mutter oaths under the cover of the cauldron clamoring over the lip of the sink. What I would not give to catch a sliver of the curses he is surely laying to my name, to finally have a justifiable excuse to carry out one of the many punishments I've dreamed up for his wickedness.

_The sharp crack of leather hitting tender, white skin...A tortured wail as each blow lands...The flesh rising into hot, red welts... _

Another shiver of pleasure ghosts through my body and crests in between my thighs, where my cock grows ever harder. I cannot give it the attention it craves, so I reach for another flask—Ernie MacMillan's—, promising to allow myself proper indulgence in my fantasies once Potter has left.

MacMillan's potion seems to have been crafted with a degree of skill that far exceeds what I know him to be capable of. Its flamelike appearance flickers red orange and gold in nearly the same way Draco's does. In fact, when I compare the two, I can hardly see a difference between them. Suspicious, I bring MacMillan's flask to my nose. The potion's characteristic burnt cinnamon scent fills my nostrils, but beneath it lies a faint odor that I can only describe as deceitful.

I take my wand from the pocket of my robes and tap MacMillan's flask three times.

"_Aparecium_," I mutter under my breath.

The Pepper-Up Potion turns an oily black as the true nature of the concoction is revealed. A Mimicking potion—a cheap one, at that. It seems MacMillan has turned to contraband materials in order to pass his classes. Relieving him of the burden of N.E.W.T. Potions will be a necessity. Giving him detention every weekend until he leaves Hogwarts—either by graduation or expulsion—will be an absolute joy.

As I make a note next to MacMillan's name, I hear a yelp of pain followed closely by a clang of pewter on stone and spilled potion sloshing across the dungeon floor.

I look up. Potter is doubled over at the back of the classroom, clutching one hand with the other, his face a portrait of agony. I cross the room in less than half a dozen strides.

"Show me," I command, holding out my hand.

"It's nothing," he gasps. "I'm—"

My patience for his frail attempt at bravado lost, I take his wrist and wrench it toward myself, silently delighting in the pain that leaps to his face in response.

"Your hand," I say with forced indifference as I examine the ridge of red, blistered flesh forming across his palm, "has suffered a severe burn as the result of direct contact with undiluted salamander bile." I look at his face, screwed up with pain, and try to resist the smile fighting its way to my lips. "Unfortunately," I say with ill-concealed glee at the opportunity that has dropped into my lap, "the bile has been absorbed into your wound. I won't be able to mend it properly until the bile has been...extracted."

"Please," Potter gasps, "I need to see Madame—"

"This will be painful."

I take my wand from my pocket and place the tip at Potter's burn before he can even think to protest. With a whispered incantation, his screams fill the empty dungeon. Shivers of pleasure reel up and down my spine, across my skin, and straight to my cock as the sounds of his agony bounce off the stone walls. I am more aroused, now, than my robes can conceal, but no matter. Potter is far too preoccupied to notice the slight tenting in the fabric.

Suddenly, a blast from behind me propels me forward, onto Potter. In an instant, the room fills with thick purple smoke. We both fall forward, onto a nearby work table. I land on top of him, my erection connecting with the soft flesh of his backside. Despite the apparent danger, I let out an involuntary moan at the unprecedented contact. He tries to push me off, but I force him down, bending back him over the work surface. I force myself to ignore how much I am enjoying the way his struggling feels against my arousal as I squint through the dense fog, searching for the source. Finally, I spot it: a cauldron in the front corner of the classroom, formerly occupied by the small cluster of Slytherin students. I take aim.

"_Finite incantatum_!" I shout.

The smoke begins to siphon back into the cauldron at once, as if the explosion were happening in reverse. Within seconds, the room is clear, the only evidence of its disturbance a slight ringing in my ears.

I lift my hand from Potter's back. He pushes hard against me, knocking me back into another workstation, and runs.

"Potter!" I call after him as I try to right myself, but he is already at the door. As he reaches for it, the door swings open. He dodges it wildly, narrowly avoiding being buffeted to the floor.

"I need to speak to you, Severus!" Draco Malfoy shouts as he blusters into the classroom. Upon seeing Potter at the doorway, he stops short. "What's going on, here?" he asks, eyeing us both suspiciously.

Neither Potter nor I have an answer for him. Potter stares at Draco, equally stunned by his appearance.

"Potter, wait!" I call again. Without a word, he glances back at me, terror and disgust etched upon his face. Then, he strides past Draco and through the open door.

Anger and frustration fuel the fire within me past the point of restraint. My eyes fall upon Draco, with the question still on his lips, and I charge.

AN: I couldn't sleep, so I posted another chapter. Don't get used to this. My profile bio may be almost eight years old, but the part about posting in a regular and/or timely manner is still true. You know where to leave your thoughts. -Mimi


	3. Chapter 3 - Draco

Draco

He comes at me like a beast, nostrils flared and teeth bared in determination. His hand closes around my upper arm, the long fingernails clamping down and biting my skin through the sleeve of my school robes. My knees weaken at the sharp, sudden pain and I nearly fall over as he pulls me to the door through which I just came.

"Severus," I say, struggling to keep from falling over my own feet as I try to match his relentless pace. "What are you—"

"Quiet!" he hisses, fiercely, without so much as a glance in my direction.

My retort cowers at the back of my throat. Our footsteps echo all the way down the deserted dungeon corridor to the only door visible from the Potions classroom. With a wave of his wand, the door swings open. He shoves me, unceremoniously, into his dark office. Then, he closes the door again—and locks it—and we're left in the near pitch black. His seemingly disembodied face floats towards me, illuminated by the faint glow of whatever potion preserves the specimens lining the walls.

An invisible hand cracks across my face with such force that I'm knocked off balance. The same hand grabs the front of my robes and pulls me back up. Lips crash into mine, pushing me further into the office. The backs of my knees collide with the edge of his desk. He lifts me onto the top, sending rolls of parchment pitching to the floor. I groan in pleasurable surprise as his tongue fills my mouth.

His hands leave my robes' collar and travel downward—first to my chest to rub my nipples through the layers of clothing, and then to massage the bulge forming between my thighs. My body's response is automatic as the long neglected flame of desire ignites within me. I want to pull him closer, to wrap my arms and legs around him, to lay back and draw him on top of me, but he's already pulling away.

Our lips separate before I'm through kissing him. He draws back from the desk, towing me along by my belt buckle. His long fingers delve past my robes and attack my trouser fastenings. The garment loosens from my body almost immediately. He pushes it to the floor, hooks his fingers into my undergarments and tears them down as well. Then, he steps back to survey his spoils.

The way his eyes devour my nakedness sends a heat surging to my groin that chases away the chill creeping up my legs. Memories I've been pretending to have forgotten flood my mind; feelings I've been pretending to have given up pulsate within me. I should end this now—leave before it goes any further—but the look on his face, the open yearning, keeps me rooted to my spot.

His hands move to the lower part of his robes and, a moment later, his erection emerges from the fabric. It hangs in the air, pale and ghostly against the backdrop of darkness. I feel my breaths become ragged, as they catch in my throat. How many times have I seen that magnificent member? And yet each time is like a surprise, a new promise of pleasures untold. He steps toward me, takes my bare hips in his hands and pulls me close. Our engorged flesh connects. Like a fool, I crane my neck back, eyes closed and lips parted, expecting to feel his mouth upon mine once again. Another hard slap to the face sends me reeling back to reality.

Fury at his betrayal flares within me, but before I can act, he twists me around and pushes me onto the desk like I'm nothing more than a rag doll. I land bent over, with both hands flat upon the surface. Then, like a shadow cast upon a wall, he's on me, his chest heaving against my back, his cock pressing against my buttock.

"Say it," he commands, easing himself into the cleft between my cheeks. His voice is husky with need, his breath hot against my ear. I feel him urge the tip of his arousal against my entrance and, slick with warm pre-ejaculate, I yield to his advance. Suddenly, all thoughts of anger and defiance—of heartbreak and mistreatment—evaporate as he lingers there, barely inside of me, teasing me with the promise of reconciliation.

"I'm wicked," I groan, lured back into obedience. "I need to be punished. Punish me, Professor."

With a sharp thrust, he buries himself deep within me. I cry out with mingled pain and ecstasy. He pulls out.

"Again!" he commands.

"Punish me, Professor!" I implore.

He thrusts again, harder, deeper, grunting ferociously with the effort. His cock finds that bundle of tenderest flesh inside me and my eyes flutter closed as my body dissolves into pure sensation. He rears back without hesitation and surges into me again and again, ever faster, ever deeper. An incoherent litany of pleas pours freely from my lips, begging for more, begging him never to stop.

I arch my back to him, pushing wantonly against his thrusts. He takes my bait. His fingernails rake across my scalp as he grabs a fistful of my hair. He wrenches my head back mercilessly. His grip on my hip tightens. The pace of his thrusts increases. He's fucking me in earnest, now—ramming into me with relentless demand. His climax is close, maybe seconds away. I wrap my hand around the erection throbbing against my abdomen, and pump furiously.

The pressure begins to build at once, but not quickly enough. Already, he's reached the height of his frenzy. His final bucks dissolve into body-wide shudders as orgasm overtakes him, silently and completely. He collapses onto me, spent and sighing with satisfaction. I can feel his hot breaths against the back of my neck. I move my hand frantically over my shaft, desperate to share in his euphoria. Finally, my reward rushes upon me and, just as he withdraws from my body, I come with a half disappointed groan.

_He took me by surprise,_ a defensive voice at the back of my mind tells me as I huff, hunched over and alone in the dark. _I wasn't ready. I'll be ready next time._

The world reforms around me in pieces as the post-orgasmic haze dissipates: first, the scent of sweat and sex in the damp air; then, the shadows of Severus' specimens coming into being; and finally, the chill creeping over my exposed body parts. I can't feel him anymore, but the ghost of his touch still lingers upon my skin and I can hear him skulking about the room, magicking rolls of parchment, quills, and ink pots from the floor. I consider calling him back and asking him to hold me, but my desire to retain what dignity I have left is much stronger.

A fire flares to life in the fireplace behind Severus's chair and my eyes sting with the sudden brightness. The torches in the corners of the room follow suit and the feeling of intimacy evaporates. I quickly right myself, now keen to cover the body that I had given away so hungrily only moments ago.

My cheeks burn as I pull my trousers up from the floor, my fingers almost numb as I struggle to secure my belt around my waist. I know he's watching me, watching to see what I do, how I'll react to what we've just shared. He'll want to talk about it, maybe even ask me to take him back. Three and a half months is longer than I expected him to last without me, but none of that matters now.

When I finally look up, he is seated at his desk, his eyes following a raven quill twitching across a piece of parchment. He must have just looked away.

"Rough day?" I ask with forced indifference.

"Yes," he replies without looking up from his work, in a surprisingly convincing matter-of-fact tone,. "I would apologize for my little outburst, but you really didn't seem to mind."

I scoff. It's just like him to try and save face. "I'd hardly call it a little outburst, but nevertheless, I understand. The body wants what it wants."

"So it would seem."

I smirk knowingly at the top of his head, watching him watch the quill near the end of the parchment roll. It won't be anything dramatic—maybe just a casual suggestion that we return to our previous 'arrangement', as he liked to call it—but I'll still enjoy it all the same.

When the quill falls still on the desk, he finally brings his eyes to meet mine. A shiver of excitement runs from my back to my fingertips. He only holds my gaze for a moment, but I make sure my face makes it clear that I'm eager to hear whatever he has to say.

"Now," he says, lifting the parchment and leaning back in his chair to read it. "I presume you wanted to speak to me about my letter to your mother."

"I—your what?" I ask, unable to mask my confusion.

"When you barged into my classroom," he says slowly, affecting the tone he reserves for the simple-minded, "demanding to speak to me, was it about the letter?"

It takes a few seconds for the memory to slide into place. I'd completely forgotten my original reason for coming to see him in light of the unexpected turn of events.

"Er, yes," I reply, warily. "You had no right to contact my mother. But what does that have to do with—"

"I had every right, Draco," he says, trampling over my words with unmistakeable exasperation. "I am your teacher."

"But given our history—"

"If you're referring to our arrangement," he says, cutting me off again, "I shouldn't have to remind you that we ended it, as per your request."

"And the letter was what? My punishment?"

He puts the parchment down and sits up, finally giving me his full attention. His eyes betray no remorse, no emotion at all. The truth dawns on me, slaps me in the face harder than his hand ever could. He has no intention of reconciling and, once again, I'm the fool.

"No, Draco," he replies, maliciously. "As I told you after your little tantrum last winter, you are free to do as you like. But when whatever is occupying your time interferes with your attendance in my class it is my job to—"

"_To run to mummy?_" I interject, feeling my blood begin to boil.

"—to redirect your focus and remind you of your priorities," he continues, unphased.

"Ha!" I scoff. "I know exactly what my priorities are."

He sneers at me. "Your failing grades say otherwise."

"And since when do you give a damn about my grades?" I ask, my voice growing tight with my suppressed anger.

"Since your mother asked me to watch over you in your father's...absence," he answers coolly.

"Don't you dare talk about my father!" I spit at him. "I don't need you to babysit me!"

"Then, stop acting like a child," he hisses back.

"What about earlier?" I challenge. "I attended your class and completed your assignment! You graded my sample! Was that the work of a child?"

"No," he says simply. "It was a very well crafted potion. Far superior to any of your classmates'—"

"Ha!" I shout again, this in triumph, but he cuts me off.

"—which tells me," he goes on, "that I was right to contact your mother."

He leans back in his chair, a self-satisfied smile working at the corners of his lips. I want to strike him, to claw that pompous smirk right off of his face, but I know that would only leave him even more convinced of his power over me. I've given too much of myself freely to him tonight, so I pull back, restoring myself to calm.

"Fine," I say quietly. "Is that all?"

"You're the one who came to see me, Draco," he replies, sounding almost bored again, "so, if you haven't anything else to say to me, you are free to leave."

Without another word, I turn on my heel. It isn't until I'm on the other side of the door, in the cool of the dungeon corridor that I realize how stifling Severus's office had been. My mind quickly clears and my regret is instantaneous. I thought I had mastered my emotions in the months I spent without him. Obviously, I was mistaken.

_It was a test,_ I think as I walk toward the staircase, running my fingers through my hair in disappointment at my shortsightedness, _and I failed! Of course, he doesn't want me. I don't deserve to have him back._

As I reach the first floor, rounding the corner and leaving the stairwell, I wonder if there will be any way for me to rectify my blunder.

AN: Consider this chapter a small gift because the workweek has begun and there probably won't be another chapter until the weekend. But don't let that deter you from reviewing! Thank you to those who have already reviewed/followed! It's nice to get confirmation that I'm not actually as terrible at this as I thought. -Mimi


	4. Chapter 4 - Harry

Harry

_I've been flying blind for an eternity, zooming around in a white abyss that came so suddenly it could have been summoned by magic. I narrowly avoid colliding with players and dodge bludgers at every turn, all the while keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of the snitch. My team is as hungry for a record breaking season as I am. Somehow they've managed to score almost two dozen goals to Slytherin's nil. Now, it's up to me to bring it home._

_Finally, I spot it near the ground, directly below me—a glittering speck of gold dust against a blank white sheet. But I'm not the only one who's seen it. Malfoy is already racing toward it from halfway across the pitch and I'm at least as far above it. I try to think—How close is it to the ground? How quickly can I dive? Would I be able to pull out of it in time?—but with each second that passes, Malfoy gets closer and closer. He's twenty meters away...sixteen...twelve..._

_I could let him have it, I think. Gryffindor has more than enough points. His catching the snitch would only end the match. But can I stand to give up a perfect season?_

_An invisible hand grabs my insides and twists them at the thought. Before I know it, I'm prying my frozen fingers from my broom handle, reaching into my robes, where my wand is tucked safely against my chest, breathing deeply._

_"It's an insane idea," says the voice of reason. "You'll almost certainly die."_

_Almost certainly, I counter, meaning there's a chance. It's all the hope I need. I take a moment only to line myself up with the snitch. Then, I launch myself from my broom._

_The fall takes an age. Icy air whips around me, cutting into my bare skin as I cut a path through the dense, swirling snowfall. My eyes are wide open, despite the cold, and my plan—the six word mantra—runs continuously through my mind._

_Grab the snitch. Say the spell, I think over and over again, as I seem to hang weightless in the sky. Grab the snitch. Say the spell._

_Then, the air breaks and I'm falling—truly falling—at lightning speed. Suddenly, the ground is rushing up to meet me. I'm ten feet above. Something small and round thwacks into the center of my open palm. The snitch! I close my fingers tightly around it. Eight feet. Six feet. Say the spell! I swing my wand arm forward and point at the ground, the incantation on the tip of my tongue when—_

_WHAM!_

_Something smashes into me and sends me careening sideways, tumbling through the air like a leaf caught in a windstorm. As I twist and spin out of control, I feel something—someone falling with me. I catch glimpses of him—an emerald green robe sleeve, silver blond hair, a dark mahogany broom handle—and try to grab ahold, but with the snitch in one hand and my wand in the other, my grip is tenuous at best. He's out of my reach before I can grasp him, and in the next heartbeat, the abyss has swallowed him whole. Terror spikes in my blood, followed swiftly by the pain of every bone in my body shattering as my descent comes to an abrupt end._

_In the silent moments that follow, I feel the icy chill of death seeping through my robes and into my skin._

_Open your eyes, the dead whisper. Face us..._

_Like a child cowering in the dark, I shake my head and squeeze my already closed eyes shut tighter. It doesn't stop them from coming, though. I can feel their greedy fingers scraping at the earth around my resting place. A hand clamps onto my arm and starts to pull me upward. I struggle against it, fighting as hard as I can to keep my place. A second hand takes my other arm, a third and fourth grab each of my shoulders, and as one, they wrench me out of the ground. _

_The sudden burst of light behind my eyelids catapults me into consciousness. I'm not dead, I think as I swallow thick gulps of frigid air. The ground is so cold and wet against my cheek. No, not the ground. The snow._

_And then I remember. The storm! The match! _

_I roll myself onto my back, ignoring the at least a dozen body parts screaming in protest, and greet the circle of concerned faces hovering above me. Then, with my last ounces of strength, I lift a quavering arm, unclench my frozen fingers, and let fly my golden gift._

_The pain, the cold, and the terror all drown in the wake of my rapture, because in this moment, I am not 'The Boy Who Lived','Saviour of the Wizarding World', or 'The Chosen One.' In this moment of untainted triumph, I am Harry Potter, Quidditch Hero._

_~o~_

_The next few hours are a haze as my ability to stay conscious wanes. A roar of cheering and screaming deafens me as I'm lifted onto a stretcher. Cold brilliance gives way to warmth and darkness. I fall back onto soft, white linens. Someone is moving my limbs—raising, lowering, twisting, prodding, pinching. It hurts, but I'm powerless to stop it._

_"I suppose you think you're quite clever," says a soft but stern female voice, "risking your life for a silly game!"_

_"Not...silly..." I murmur, feeling like my mouth is swimming away from my face as I speak._

_"Don't bother trying to talk," she says. "Your little stunt cost you dearly. You've got nine broken bones and a nasty fracture in your skull. Open up."_

_I obey and am rewarded with a mouthful of liquid smoke. It's all I can do to keep from coughing it up spitting it back out._

_"There," she says with satisfaction, and I vaguely wonder if it's with her work or my reaction. "You'll be right as rain in no time. I hope your match was worth it."_

_Her voice echoes as I slip into the ether of enchanted sleep. The pins and needles have already set to work mending my arm, both legs, ribs, back and head, and just before I drop off I smile and whisper, "Was..."_

_~o~_

_Hot water cascades over my body from each of the three shower heads hanging over my stall. I press my palms against the gray tiles and let the enchanted rivulets snake around my arms and legs and torso, loosening my aching, muscles. Sweetly scented steam wafts around me, and I breathe it in deeply. Its effect is instantaneous. I feel my eyelids droop as relaxation washes over me, and yet..._

_The tightness in my chest. It's still there._

_I ran. Like a fucking coward, I read his note and I ran. I crept out of the Hospital Wing while Madame Pomfrey's back was turned and took to the corridors, his words haunting every step of my aimless journey._

_'Harry, I tried to stay until you woke up but Pomfrey kicked me out. I'll be back later. Hopefully, she'll be in a better mood. Don't go anywhere. There's something I need to tell you.'_

_Something he needs to tell me, indeed. I turn my face up to the stream and let out a frustrated sigh. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen. Two years of holding him at arm's length, of ignoring his subtle hints at his feelings for me while I have one meaningless encounter after another with every Quidditch enthusiast from here to Hogsmeade—Two bloody years of hoping that he'll just give up on me, that he'll realize he deserves so much better—and instead he chooses to redouble his efforts._

_The idiot, I can't stop myself from thinking, and I instantly feel guilty._

_It's not his fault, I tell myself. The plan was stupid, anyway. And cowardly. This'll be better. A clean break._

_As I reach for the soap, an uneasy feeling bristles through the hairs on the back of my neck. I freeze just in time to see a jagged jet of white light scream past my fingertips. The shelf holding the bar of soap explodes in a shower of stone and broken tiles. I throw myself back, but my body feels heavy, my senses dulled. I feel a sharp pain as a tile shard cuts across my cheek. _

_Heart pounding, I whip around to squint through my nearsightedness at my attacker. I make out a pale figure with white blonde hair, wearing emerald green Quidditch robes. _

_Draco Malfoy. _

_"What the hell are you—"_

_He raises his arm again, his wand aimed directly at me. Without thinking, I jump, tumbling across the wet floor as the wall cracks open behind me. A jet of water surges from the gap. He takes aim again. I touch my thigh and think of the wand sitting on top of my quidditch robes with a pang of regret. I have no defense, and now no cover, so I embrace the only option left to me. _

_Before I can think better of it, I'm on my feet and running. My legs feel heavy, hard to maneuver. I lumber towards Malfoy, clumsily dodging two more of his curses until my body collides with his. We stumble back and fall in a tangle of flailing limbs. The floor rushes past our heads as we plunge into the empty swimming pool sized bathtub in the middle of the room. I brace myself for the crushing impact, but it never comes. Instead, the air tightens around us, slowing our descent like a bungee cord. We come to a stop with our faces barely an inch from the tub's marble bottom. Then, we're launched back out of the tub, into the air. _

_My back hits the floor tiles with a wet smack. Malfoy lands in a heap on the next to me. He attacks without hesitation, scrambling on top of me, straddling my torso. His fist slams into my cheek. Blood sprays from my mouth, mingling with the water pooling beneath my head. He wraps his fingers around my neck, his palms pressing against my throat. I can see his eyes, bloodshot red and shining with tears._

_"You cheating bastard," he growls, squeezing tighter and tighter._

_White lights are popping in my eyes. I try to blink them away, but it only makes them worse. My chest is spasming, desperate to fill my lungs with air. I dig my fingernails into his hands, his arms, his face full of rage, but his hold is firm._

_Then, in a moment of clarity, I reach above me, scrabbling at the floor beyond my head for something—anything useful as the room starts to go dark. Mercifully, my fingers brush against something solid and slippery. The bar of soap! I grasp it and, rallying all the strength I have left, I take a madcap swing at Malfoy's head._

_The bar and my fist both connect with the side of his face. I hear him grunt in pain before his weight lifts off of my body. Suddenly, I am coughing, wheezing, choking on the air rushing into my lungs. I sit up as quickly as I can, my head still spinning. His wand is laying on the floor, halfway between me and the row of shower stalls. If I can just reach it..._

_I try to crawl. His fingers are around my ankle in seconds, yanking me back. I try to fight, to kick him off, but the floor is so slick that my arms slip out from underneath me. He rolls me onto my back and takes another swing at my face. This time, I'm ready. I block his punch and counter with one of my own. My knuckles ram against his mouth. I feel slicing open as they run across his teeth. Before he can recover from the shock, I grab the lapels of his robes and throw him onto the floor._

_The upper hand now mine, I pin him down—his arms with my hands, his torso with my torso. He struggles wildly beneath me, trying to buck me off like a rabid hippogriff, but we both know I was always the stronger of the two of us. I hold him fast, and slowly, he loses steam. His body eventually goes limp, his head falls back to the floor, and he looks up at me defeated, breathing heavily, with one question in his eyes:_

_What now?_

_It's the question I am asking myself, at the moment. How am I going to make him pay for attacking me when I was most vulnerable, for nearly strangling me to death? Instinct tells me that to pay him in kind would be to sink to his level, but the dark part of me that feels the bruises forming on my neck and my back and my face wants him to suffer. I lean forward to pronounce my judgement. Without warning, his head rushes toward my face. I have just enough time to brace myself for the pain of impact before his lips capture mine. _

_Our mouths come apart as quickly as they had come together. I stare at him in shock. He rears forward for another assault and my body reacts before my brain can process what's happening. I meet his lips with equal force, parting them, delving into his depths with my tongue, swimming in the mix of blood and firewhiskey. His wrists are twisting in my fingers, begging freedom. I release them. Suddenly, eager, slender hands are grasping my shoulders, moving up my neck, burying themselves in my hair, running over my back, squeezing the cheeks of my arse and swells of arousal pulse through me in their wake._

_I moan into his mouth, my senses finally awakened to the desires of my body. My cock throbs between our torsos, aching with yearning to feel his touch. I claw at his robes, silently threatening to tear them off his body. He pushes his chest against me and I happily relinquish control to him. I let him roll me onto my back, our mouths still working frantically against each other. Then, all at once, he pulls away. He places a hand on my chest and, too late, I see his other arm rear back. I feel my eyes widen in shock before he swings his fist into the base of my jaw and everything goes black._

AN: So many apologies! I can't even begin to describe the trouble I've had with this chapter! I had it almost finished and then, in a sudden stroke of inspiration, I decided to flex my authorial muscles and add a layer of depth to it that wasn't in the original plan. Two and a half months of looking at this chapter every day later, I am frustrated and just glad that I've managed to bring it to some kind of end. So, needless to say, it's not my best by far and I'm nowhere near happy with it, but I'm exhausted and I've decided that if I want to finish this story before the end of the year, I'll just have to fix this chapter later. I hate to post mediocre work, but I can't let perfectionist brain get the better of me. As always, thanks for reading. Please review!


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